Page 136 of Seizing Control: Part One

Someone get me a cure please because there is no way I’m capitulating to Slash...

Not now.

Not ever.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

I follow his focus as he looks down at my right arm. I’m unconsciously supporting it with my left hand. As I peer at my swelling limb, the pain radiating along my forearm from clenching the butt of my gun too tight becomes unbearable. Cradling my wrist higher, I end up screwing up my face in a grimace when that action doesn’t alleviate the throbbing.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit… you’ve hurt yourself.”

As the sanity that snapped when I spotted Bebe starts to reclaim its control of my mind, I wilt in his grip. My husband registers my submission. He loosens his fingers around my throat, then takes hold of my left hand. When he lets go of my neck to thread my wedding band back onto my ring finger, I don’t fight him. We’re married. I’m still a slave to his domination. He can take this win for now because I’m disappearing straight after the funeral, anyway.

I’ll post the ring back to him with a copy of the divorce papers I’m having drawn up.

Once the wedding band is in place, my husband allows me to push him away with my left hand. I seesaw my teeth over my bleeding inner cheek as I stow my Sig Sauer back in my bag. The stabbing is excruciating as I take hold of the handlebars and cock my leg over Zeke’s bike.

Slash and I lock gazes.

He appears to weigh up the odds of winning the argument I can see brewing in his eyes.

He decides against it.

I kick up the stand of the rumbling machine.

Brace the Harley between my legs.

Rev the engine.

Stare straight ahead with dismissal written all over my posture.

After a moment, Slash walks away. I allow my shoulders to relax. My eyes burn with the need to cry—from the stress of the last two and a half weeks, the strain of the day, the pain of my injured wrist. A blacked-out SUV approaches from the direction we’re headed. A suited man gets out and speaks to the cop I told to find a donut, then the police begin to disperse. I glare at Bebe’s head while she’s bundled into a vehicle by her husband, then I fix my glower on her SUV and maintain my hatred of her existence until she’s out of sight.

Every dog has their day.

Karma is coming for Bebe soon.

My entire body is racked with shaking after I manhandle Zeke’s Harley into motion behind the hearse. The grumble of the other motorcycles fills my ears, blocks out the thoughts I want to avoid, and as I duck my nose into the collar of my jacket, I pretend that I can smell the man who once owned my heart.

Leather. Amber. Spice.

Zeke.

My long-time home.

Gone.

I’m in agony as I pull to a stop at the entrance to the cemetery.

Inside and out.

Mentally and physically.

Gritting my teeth, I rally long enough to park Zeke’s motorcycle and take my place in the front row. The graveside fills up with Shamrocks, their old ladies, and kids. From chapters near and far, they assemble to pay their respects. My brothers crowd around me. Nadia takes the seat next to mine and grips my left hand tight. Seraphina hangs with her band and our Moscato & Monet OGs. The Blackards join us. Diablo comes to stand behind me with Gabbi by his side. I offer the tattooed girl a tight smile, then I return my attention to the rectangular hole in the ground a metre or two in front of me.

I’m okay.

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